


Dead End

by Ina MacAllan (inamac)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1980-07-15
Updated: 1980-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/Ina%20MacAllan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The remnants of the Liberator's crew stranded on Terminal face a mysterious adversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead End

**Author's Note:**

> _Terminal_ the episode on which this story is based, was broadcast in Spring 1980 as the last episode of the third series of 'Blake's Seven'.
> 
> At that time there was no prospect of a fourth series (there are those of us who still consider that there is not, and never has been, a fourth series). This story was written in Summer 1980 based solely on the series up to that date. This text was revised in 2001 for a second edition printing by tidying up some of the text and grammar, but no changes were (or have been) made to the background to the characters or information available to viewers at this point. There may be internal errors of 'fact' which are contradicted by fourth season.
> 
> If so, please leave me my illusions.
> 
> It has, after all, been thirty years…

# Dead End

From the summit of the ridge the land sloped away, grey and purple beneath a lowering sky. The few trees, which struggled for survival among the tumbled rocks of the escarpment, were stunted and twisted, their branches forced into weird supplicatory shapes by the prevailing winds. That wind was blowing now. Keening across the open moor. Shrieking like a soul in torment where the rocky outcrops formed a barrier to its passage.

The man who moved along the top of the ridge was finding the terrain as much a barrier to his progress as the wind. The long drought had opened up gullies and channels in the dry earth from which dust whipped up into his eyes, obscuring his vision so that he constantly found himself stumbling into the crevices among the sand-coloured ground-covering plants. He cursed as his foot caught in yet another hidden cleft, and pulled free with a jerk which jarred his ankle. The ache that started to throb in the joint did not improve his temper.

Terminal.

It was an apt name for the planet. A dead-end – with the emphasis on 'dead'.

He tripped again and swore vehemently before he realised that he had found what he was looking for. He knelt beside the gully, brushing aside the vegetation to reveal a double noose of thin wire looped tightly around the hind legs of a small mammal. The dappled grey fur was mottled with blood. It squealed as he freed it from the trap, and the nictitating membrane that protected its eyes against the wind-blown dust flicked back to reveal limpid golden eyes, wide with fear. Its captor ignored it. Deftly he lifted the creature by its broken hind legs, bringing his free hand down in a vicious jerk and twist to snap its neck. He set his back to the wind while he used his knife to slit the animal's flesh and slung the limp carcass alongside another on his forked staff. Then he bent to reset the trap.

The ease with which he had learned these primitive skills worried him. It had been Cally who had pointed out that the food supplies aboard the wrecked Federation ship would run out long before they managed to make the vessel spaceworthy. She had painstakingly taken on the task of teaching her companions the basic survival skills that their race had long ago abandoned. At first they had used the guns for hunting, but after a night attack by the savage native Links the weapons had been reserved for purely defensive purposes. Small food-animals could be trapped, or brought down by knife or spear of bolas, but the thick pelts of the links were impervious to anything short of an energy weapon.

He straightened and slung the staff with the catch over his shoulder. As he turned back to the camp a movement in the bushes below caught his eye. He had turned his back to the wind. It was a mistake, which he swore he would never make again – if he was given the opportunity. The link was close. He could smell it now, a rank scent emanating from a dark shadow among the bushes. It must be cunning, this one, to have used the sparse cover this area afforded. There was blood on his hands, fresh from the kill. The links were not fussy about their meat and there was not nearly enough on the staff to satisfy this brute. A young male. Strong, incredibly fast, and deadly.

The hunter backed away, ready for flight, and his foot caught in the gully. He fell, wrenching an already sore ankle, and the link was on top of him.

Luck saved him. His fall put the creature off balance. It misjudged its leap and vaulted right over him, landing with an awkward roll on the far side of the gully. It was not the sort of luck that would hold twice. As the beast turned he forced his body further into the gully, presenting it with as small a target as possible. His only weapons were the skinning knife – useless against that thick hide – and the sharpened staff with its load of carcasses. He thrust that upwards savagely as the link made a grab for him. The wood glanced against its side, leaving a weal mark through the black hair. The creature drew back and bent to paw at he wound. It seemed to be more puzzled than hurt. For the moment its victim was forgotten.

He made to rise, and discovered that the narrow cleft had become a trap rather than a refuge. A ready-made grave. He could not get free without exposing himself to attack, but if he stayed it was only a matter of time before the link realised that the splintered staff could do it no real harm. Even as the thought formed itself in his mind the creature confirmed it. A black paw reached into the cleft, scrabbling clumsily, not for him, but for the weapon. One of the vicious claws hooked into a battered carcass and drew back, wrenching the stick from his hands with a force that jarred his shoulders and scraped splinters into his hands. Involuntarily he yelled.

The link fell, as if skewered by the sound.

It toppled forward, lying half over him so that he had to scramble out from beneath it along the dusty gully. A hand reached down to help him and he winced as strained shoulder muscles took his weight.

"Thank you, Dayna."

"You were lucky I was up here." She released him and crossed to the fallen link to draw two of her arrows from its body. She wiped them n its fur and sighted along them to make sure that they were undamaged before slipping them back into the quiver at her side. "Why were you emptying the traps anyway? That's Cally's job."

He shrugged. "I offered to do it. She's better than I am at handing tools to Avon and telling him how wonderful he is."

Dayna smiled. She had heard their argument from the other side of the camp. The others probably wouldn't thank her for saving Tarrant from the link. On the other hand, if they ever managed to get that wreck into orbit Tarrant's skills would come in useful.   
Meanwhile it was her skills and Cally's which were keeping them alive. She bent to retrieve the fruits of Tarrant's labours, looking with distaste at the dusty, ripped carcasses dangling from the splintered staff. "Cally's better at almost anything than you are. Are these supposed to be our supper?"

Tarrant nodded. "Yes. Sorry about the state they're in. They met with a slight accident."

"Yes." Dayna slung the carcasses over her shoulder with her bow and set off along the ridge. "I just hope that Cally's a good cook too."

PROGRAM 827/43 : RUNNING +  
\+ MONITORING +  
\+ SUBJECT : TARRANT, DEL +  
\+ OBJECTIVE : TERMINATION +

 

The spaceship had ploughed a long furrow through the sparse woodland undergrowth and come to rest with its nose buried in a low hill covered with dense, prickly foliage. It had taken them nearly a week to dig it free and then they had discovered that although the hull of the ship and most of its shielding systems were intact the computers and drive units had been burned out by the overload which had caused the crash. Servalan had left the door open. She had also left the dead pilot in her seat. If the crew of the Liberator had ever entertained any doubts about the humanity of otherwise of the Federation's constructs those doubts were dispelled by the stench that pervaded the crumpled control cabin.

They had buried what was left of the bodies, but the smell remained. Working conditions aboard the little cruiser were far from pleasant. As far as Avon was concerned the place had only one advantage: he could get on with the task of repairing the computers without any chance of being interrupted by Tarrant – or Vila.

Vila.

The sound of that footstep was unmistakable. They'd been here for three weeks and he still forgot about the bar across the threshold of the inner airlock door. Avon wriggled awkwardly out of the cramped space beneath the console and was on his feet in time to halt Vila's headlong skid down the ramp and into the viewing screen.

"I suppose you have a good reason for disturbing me?"

Vila caught his breath and shrugged off Avon's steadying hand. "Tarrant's been injured…"

"You don't have a good reason." Avon tossed the probe that he had been using back into its box and rummaged for another tool. Vila felt very much inclined to leave him to it. His own reaction to the sight of Tarrant limping down the hill on Dayna's arm had been very similar, although his intolerant annoyance sprang mainly from the realisation that until Tarrant's ankle had healed the job of clearing the traps and patrolling the camp would fall to him. Vila had gone to a lot of trouble to get out of that particular task. Tarrant had obviously walked into that link on purpose.

"Was there something else? Or did you just come in to block out my light?"

The query cut into Vila's reverie. "What? Oh, yes. Is Orac back with us yet?"

Avon sighed. "Orac will be 'back with us' when I get this computer operating; which, in view of all the interruptions, will probably be sometime next year."

"Alright, alright. I only asked because Tarrant thought that there might be medical records…"

"You can explain to Tarrant that Orac is not a computer. It is a highly sophisticated device designed to read other computers. And since the links destroyed the Federation base on this planet the only computer within six light years of this misbegotten world is the one on this space ship. Which I am attempting to repair."

Vila nodded. "I explained that –"

"That must have reassured Tarrant," muttered Avon.

"- and he wants to know if there's anything he can do to help."

The comment opened several possibilities to both men. They refrained from mentioning them. Avon uncoupled a unit from one of the control panels and handed it to Vila. "This calculates navigational co-ordinates. Tarrant should be familiar with the basic response tests. Ask him to run them through it and let me have the results."

"Right." Vila hefted the unit in one hand. It was lighter than it looked. He turned back to the doorway. "Oh, Cally says the stew will be ready in about half an hour."

Avon nodded and turned back to his work. Stew. Again. If he needed an incentive to get this ship operational Cally was certainly providing one.

SUB-PROGRAM 827/43 : INITIATED +  
\+ SUBJECT : AURONAE. CALLY +  
\+ OBJECTIVE : CAPTURE AND HOLDING +  
\+ RUNNING +  
\+ MONITORING +

 

Dayna was singing softly to herself, a space-siren's song of the emptiness between the island galaxies. The firelight cast bright highlights across her face, investing her features with a weird otherworldly beauty. Vila, sprawled on the other side of the fire, watched her lazily, only half his mind on the game set out on the improvised chirrit board at his side. On cool evenings like this, gathered around a warm fire, replete and with only the stardust of the distant Core lighting the clear, moonless sky, Vila felt more than satisfied. If only they could stay here forever.

Tarrant cut into his reverie by slamming a piece down on the semicircular playing board.  
"Challenge, Vila."

"What?" The magic was not quite broken. Dayna's voice held a long low note, flickering like the flames. Tarrant leaned forward; unaware of the spell he was breaking. There was an edge of exasperated anger in his voice.

"It's your move, Vila. And I've got you trapped."

Yes, you have, though the thief, as he turned his attention to the board.

SUB-PROGRAM 827/43 +  
\+ EXECUTE +

 

The scream ripped the night like lightning.

The fire danced as the three leapt to their feet, Vila overturning the chirrit board in his haste. Dayna snatched a brand from the fire, holding it high as the scream sounded again. Footsteps stamped on the beaten earth of the pathway between their camp and the wrecked spaceship. Tarrant hefted his makeshift javelin, ready to meet the intruder, and had it poised for a cast as Avon broke into the clearing, his gun in his hand. For a long moment the two men confronted each other, both primed to kill.

The scream sounded again. A woman's voice, inhuman as it made anguished protest against the ultimate horror.

"Where's Cally?"

It was a double chorus. But Tarrant's query was only that, a question, no more, while Avon's voice held both concern and hatred. He was ready to kill.

Vila stepped forward, carefully keeping out of the line of fire. His voice sounded incongruously normal as it underscored that hellish screaming.

"Avon, she was with you…"

"She was coming back here." Reason was beginning to reassert itself, but Tarrant's curt response almost earned him a shot from the primed gun.

"Alone?"

"She had the other gun. And the links…"

"It would take more than a few links to worry Cally. Besides, if she was in trouble she'd telepath…"

Abruptly the screaming stopped. Dayna's voice trailed off. The silence that followed was almost as unnerving. For a moment none of them moved. Then Tarrant dropped his weapon and cupped his hands to his mouth. Tilting back his head he gave a call that was almost as piercing as the scream.

"Cally!"

Birds rose from the trees, shrieking protest at the disturbance.

"Cally!" Dayna added her own cry, but there was no reply.

Avon snapped his gun back into its holster. His eyes were shadowed but his voice was hard. "She's gone. Someone – or something – took her."

Vila looked shocked. "But that scream. It couldn't have been Cally. It wasn't human."

"Cally is not human." For the second time that evening Tarrant almost earned death at Avon's hands, though he failed to notice the other man's reaction. Slowly Avon's fingers uncurled.

"At dawn," he said, "we start searching." It was a command. None of them dared to question it.

+++++

Dawn. At first she thought that she had awoken in darkness, but light streamed through the open window, making the room unbearably bright. Cally blinked. There was something wrong with her eyes. She could see the light, see every detail of the room, and yet there was a blackness in her mind, as if she had woken in a close shuttered room, knowing it was light outside yet unable to accept the fact.

What was wrong with her?

The thought was wrapped in darkness, refusing to form coherently in her mind. Confused, she buried her head in her hands, feeling her hair wiry against her fingers, reassuring her of reality, of the fact that she was awake.

So what _was_ wrong with her? And where was she? How had she been brought here? Were the others…?

The others. The thought cut into her confusion like a blast from one of the Liberator's guns. How had she forgotten? She could call them telepathically. She lifted her head.

_Avon?_

It was a thought, nothing more. The reaching – the _contact_ – of telepathic communication, was missing. The blackness to which she had awakened seemed to fill her mind like a cloud. She was drowning. Choking.

She screamed, and it was a cry of protest and despair. She had been the last of her kind, the last of the telepathic Auronae. She, Cally, had survived exile, the destruction of Saurian Major, the end of her homeworld, of everything she knew and loved. She had lost everything, but had survived. And now… now she was deprived of the contact she had with her only friends.

The scream gave way to racking sobs, weeping that tore at her throat and lungs, physically as painful as the mental anguish that made a black hell of her mind. There was nothing, no one, she could turn to. She was alone. She could not think. She could not communicate. She did not want to live.

Cally gave herself up to the darkness.

+++++

Tarrant was awakened by Avon's boot in the small of his back. He rolled over, cursing, and received another kick as he settled into a more comfortable position.

"Alright, I'm awake"

"Dayna and I are up," Avon pointed out with patient obviousness. Tarrant opened his eyes and looked up at him.

"But not Vila?"

"Vila is cooking breakfast. You've got five minutes, Tarrant, if you want to eat before we start moving."

"If Vila's doing the cooking I don't think I want to eat." It was a protest, but Tarrant was on his feet before Avon's boot could make contact with his spine for a third time.

It took them longer than Avon's optimistic 'five minutes' to prepare for the search, but they were all ready long before the last traces of sunrise had left the sky. They stripped the spaceship of most of its survival gear and dismantled the campsite. Tarrant glanced around the empty clearing and looked pointedly at Avon.

"So where do we start searching?"

"Don't you have any suggestions?" Avon's heavy sarcasm was wasted on Tarrant. He took the question at face value.

"Yes, I suggest that we ask Orac."

Avon threw Vila a glance that spoke volumes. "Oh? And from where do you suggest that Orac obtains the information? This planet is on the edge of nowhere, Tarrant. Orac's effective range is great, but it's not unlimited, and since the destruction of Star One there aren't any carrier-waves available for Orac to tap into."

"Thank you for the lecture, Avon." Tarrant lifted the lid from Orac's case and held out his hand for the key to the super-computer. "I'd still like a practical demonstration."

Grudgingly Avon handed over the activating key. When Tarrant inserted it into its place the machine gave a gurgling hum. Tarrant looked up triumphantly, but Avon merely shrugged.

"Power residue," he opined. Tarrant ignored him, addressing the computer curtly. His query was answered by an equally curt Orac.

\+ Yes. What is it? +

Vila jumped, shocked. "Orac! You're alive!"

Predictably the computer snorted its derision. Prolonged inactivity had not improved Orac's temper. Avon interrupted an involved and pedantic discourse on the exact definition of the term 'alive' by reaching threateningly for the activating key.

"What Vila means," he said, in the sudden silence, "is that you are activated and responding to input. That implies that you are drawing power and information from some nearby source."

\+ Self evidently that implication is correct. +

"Where is that source?"

\+ My information suggests that it is on a raised area of land some ninety kilometres from this present location. +

Tarrant broke in. "That's all very well, but what we want to know is who has kidnapped Cally."

Orac was finally coerced into admitting that Cally's abduction had been engineered by the computer from which it (Orac) was currently drawing its power and information. A computer complex situated in the mountains which it could see dimly on the northern horizon. Avon measured the distance dubiously.

"Ninety kilometres over rough country. You'll stay here with Orac, Tarrant. We can't afford to carry passengers"

Tarrant climbed indignantly to his feet. "I can manage."

"Dayna told me that it would be at least three days before that ankle of yours is healed. Do you really think that a ninety-kilometre hike will cure it?" It was not a serious question, but Dayna took it as such.

"I was wrong, Avon. His ankle is fine now. Tarrant can make it."

"I doubt that. This will not be a stroll through the woods."

"I don't expect that it will be easy, Avon," said Tarrant, "but I _can_ manage. After Dayna's medication my ankle is fine."

Avon raised a sceptical eyebrow. Dayna caught at his arm, forcing him to pay attention to her. "It's true, Avon. I put a poultice on it last night, some boiled leaves to keep the swelling down, and… well, look at it. I must have chosen the right herbs or something. The swelling has gone completely and Tarrant says that he feels no pain."

Vila looked envious. "Lucky Tarrant."

"So, Tarrant put the lid back on Orac's case and picked it up, "I'm coming with you." That was the last word.

+++++

When sanity returned Cally found herself curled in a foetal ball on the floor of the room. Her arms were wrapped about her head. Her fists were clenched so tightly that the nerves were dead. Her nails had drawn blood from her palms. The carpet was damp against her cheek – soaked with her tears. Her throat was dry and raw. She licked her lips, tasting salt. Slowly she relaxed, letting the tension and hysteria drain away. Touch, taste and smell. At least she still had her senses. Terran senses. If the Earth people could survive without telepathic powers then it was possible. Cally grinned ruefully, telling herself that she had been stupid, throwing a tantrum like a child deprived of a favourite toy. She subdued the tears that rose at he back of her eyes. Fits of temper would not get her out of this situation. First she must find out where she was, why she had been brought here, and by whom. Solving those problems could be the first steps on the path to recovering… No. She must not even think about the possibility of regaining her powers.

Cally climbed to her feet and, for the first time, looked at her surroundings.

It was a luxurious prison. A room some five metres long by four wide. The walls were panelled with a red-veined wood, solid and warm. There was no trace of a door; the only break in the walls was the irregularly shaped window through which the dawn light streamed.

She walked to it and looked out across the jagged mountain peaks and the wild, storm-tossed clouds moving across the pale sky. The landscape reflected her mood, lonely and desolate. She leaned out, over the smooth sill, seeking a way of escape. Below her the wall of the tower fell away until it met sheer cliff a hundred metres below. The livid green vegetation at the base of the drop shimmered in the pale light like scum on stagnant water. There was no escape that way.

Cally looked up. The thought of a climb above that drop was terrifying, but it might be the only way. Her disappointment was mingled with relief as she saw that the sheer side of her prison offered no foothold. The green material of which the tower had been constructed was as smooth as glass, as if the place had been cast from a single mould.

She turned her attention to the room. The place had all the opulence of the millionaire suite in a first class hotel, and evinced the same characterless décor. There were several low tables of the same red wood as the wall panels. One bore the circular depression of a food dispenser. She activated it absently. Something so familiar was comforting. The dish which it delivered contained a mixture of crisp but bland-tasting vegetable matter. She ate distractedly as she moved around the room. The bed incorporated an expensive massage unit, vaguely reminiscent of those aboard the Liberator, and the controls of the built-in music system were familiar, although the selection was not.

She winced at the volume of the sound and switched it off abruptly. The chairs were deep and comfortable but she was too restless to take advantage of them. The surveillance devices were where she had expected to find them, high in the corners of the room, spherical watching eyes. She ignored them. There were no others concealed more cunningly. Even when she found the wardrobe with its collection of immaculately coutured gowns and its range of glittering jewellery she betrayed no surprise. For whatever reason she had been brought here her captor obviously did not intend her to suffer. Not yet. She might as well take advantage of their hospitality. She showered and changed, choosing the most practical of the gowns. Then she paced, moving restlessly amid the swirl of susurrating silk like a caged animal. It was a luxurious cage, true, but a cage nonetheless.

Cally was thinking furiously. They were the thoughts that had occupied her ever since she had awoken to this nightmare. Thoughts frozen into their path like a mad rat trapped in a one-way maze. Where was she? Who had brought her here? And how? And, most important, and maddeningly unanswerable, why?

She could not think. Literally, her mind refused to function logically. It was as if, with the loss of her telepathic powers, the floodgates of her memory had opened. She knew so much, and yet there was no pattern to it, no way to concentrate on one piece of information; to build up a logical train of thought. There was no reason to. With no way of communication, what was the point? Was this what it meant to be human? This screaming isolation? No wonder the non-telepathic races were so violent. She could have dulled her senses with action, but trapped here, with no way out, there was nothing she could do but think, and wait, and pace.

+++++

They had been walking for three hours when they reached the marsh. At first it was no more than a network of drainage ditches, little streams sunken in channels so overgrown that the land seemed to be criss-crossed by low hedges of lush vegetation. Negotiating them was no problem. Most were merely a stride's width and the water in all was barely more than a few decimetres deep, but the terrain slowed them considerably. The channels became more frequent as they moved on, and the ground between them turned damp and boggy. Finally the lush vegetation gave way to thin-stemmed wind blown marsh reeds and they were looking at a desolate wasteland of absolutely flat, boggy marsh which seemed to stretch to the foothills of the distant mountains.

Vila stopped.

"We can't walk across that."

"Do you propose that we fly?" Avon's sarcasm was muted by the knowledge that somehow they would have to cross this desolate marshland, and quickly.

Tarrant shifted the weight of Orac from one hand to the other. "I think that walking on water is beyond even your capabilities, Avon."

Avon treated the comment with the contempt it deserved. In spite of his scorn he was seriously considering the possibility of constructing some sort of balloon or glider to fly over the marsh. He rejected the idea. Even if they could find the materials there was no time for such a complicated project. And they dare not try going around the area. The marsh stretched, flat and level, along the whole line of the horizon. It was likely that the entire area was a silted up river estuary.

In one direction lay the sea, in the other a possibly unfordable torrent. Building a boat at he end of a long detour would be as time consuming as constructing a flying craft. The had no choice. Orac had said that the source of the power lay in those mountains ahead, and the only way to reach them was across the marsh.. There was no point in arguing, though Tarrant and Vila seemed intent on doing just that. Avon eased the pack on his back and started walking. Eventually the others followed.

+++++

The going was damp, but not treacherous. They made better time than they had expected until, with the onset of evening, marsh mist began to drift across the land, obscuring the ground with writhing tentacles of white gauze. Eventually, when all four of them were plastered with the mud of unexpected falls on the uneven ground, Dayna called a halt.

"We won't make it across tonight, Avon. We aren't half way there yet. And with this ground mist; and night coming on…"

Vila, who had been making similar protests since they had entered the marsh, was quick to endorse Dayna's suggestion. The patch of land on which they stood was rather less damp than the surrounding area. Nevertheless Orac gave an audible squelch when Tarrant set it down. The computer, even under the influence of molecular reduction, was heavy.

Dusk crept over the camp as insidiously as the mist. That night, for the first time since landing on Terminal, they set no watch. In the middle of that bleak and desolate marsh there was no need.

PROGRAM 827/43 : RUNNING +  
\+ INPUT : ACTIVITY SUSPENDED +  
\+ SOLVE +  
\+ INITIATE CRISIS +  
\+ FULL ALERT +  
\+ MONITORING +

They were all awake long before dawn. It had been a damp and uncomfortable night and they faced the prospect of another day on the marsh with moody resignation. Without a fire there was no way for them to dry the stiffness out of their damp clothes, and the breakfast of stale biscuits and crumbling space-rations did not improve anyone's temper. They struck camp as swiftly as possible and set out on the second stage of the long trek.

Conditions on the previous day had not been pleasant, but now they reached the most difficult part of their journey. The bog had turned into flat swamp. Insects rose in clouds from the disturbed water as they waded, thigh-deep, through the weedy slime. The bites were irritating but the real danger lay in the treacherous nature of the ground. At any moment the firm swamp bed could give way to sucking quicksand. Every step had to be tested and they found that it was impossible to forge a straight path. Sometimes it seemed that they were walking in circles. Frequently they lost more ground than they gained by making zig-zag detours. The mountains seemed to draw no nearer. Apart from the insects they became aware of other wildlife moving through the swamp. Stealthy eyes watched their progress.

They heard plops and gurgles as marsh dwellers followed in their wake; the distant cries of hunters and prey performing the universal ritual of laughter and death. It was eerie and unnerving and Vila, for one, was beginning to think that they would never get out of the swamp alive.

Then Tarrant vanished.

One moment he was plodding steadily along ahead of Vila, ignoring the thief's conversational protests about the over-active insect life, and the next instant he was gone as suddenly as if he had been picked up by a teleport field.

Vila's startled cry brought the others to a halt. By the time that Dayna and Avon had floundered to his side it was obvious what had happened.

Something thrashed through the reeds ahead and Tarrant reappeared briefly, struggling in the grip of nightmare.

It was about two metres long, covered in a dull green scaly warty hide, which camouflaged it perfectly in the ooze of the swamp. Its head bore three protruding eyes and a wide, ugly snout, wrinkled back to show a double row of sharp yellow carnivore's teeth, angled to rip out the throat of its prey. It had selected Tarrant as its prey now, and the long jaws snapped closed with a rattle as he ducked away from its first strike. It barked in fury and flailed around, its flippers churning up mud. Tarrant was faster, but only by a fraction. When it recovered from its second lunge the yellow fangs dripped red blood. Of its victim there was no sign.

The beast dropped its head, nosing at the mud for its prey. Its baleful eyes seemed to float on the surface of the swamp, disembodied jewels that belied the menace beneath the foetid scum. Then it rose again, with a bark of pain, and Tarrant rose with it, clinging to the warty hide like a rodeo rider astride a bucking bronco. One arm hung, useless, at his side. The watchers could see no wound beneath the slimy mud that coated him from head to foot, but the limb was obviously injured. In his other hand he held his knife. He raised it for a strike just as the beam from Avon's gun hit the beast full on its exposed chest. It rose to its full height, screaming in agony, its flat, beaver-like tail slamming down into the surface of the swamp to send up a spray of slime and weed which blinded the watchers.

Still Tarrant managed to cling on. The beast was maddened by the pain, but nowhere near death. He reached forward with the knife, striking blindly at the ugly head. The blade slipped down, caught on the point of the jaw, and slid into the soft flesh of the throat. The beast's last convulsive buck drove the metal into its jugular vein.

Something cracked with a sound like a whip. Sparks flew from the bloody knife. The watchers heard Tarrant scream and saw his body flung free of the dying creature. Flame danced on the surface of the swamp as marsh gases ignited. Blue fire made the place a scene from an alien hell. Tarrant writhed amid the flames and fell with a splash like a thunderclap. He landed on his back, about twenty metres away, and lay there, every muscle locked rigid, unresisting as the swamp tugged gently at his body, sucking him down into its depths.

+++++

"Cally?"

She jumped and whirled. The room was empty.

"Your name is Cally?"

"Yes," She had found the source of the voice now. A small grille set into the wall by the window. She had noticed it earlier and assumed it to be part of the surveillance system. If only she was able to think straight.

The voice continued. It had a slightly mechanical quality that reminded her of Zen. It was not a welcome memory. With an effort she forced herself to concentrate. The unheeded question was repeated.

"You came here with a human called Tarrant?"

"Yes."

Her reply was wary, but the voice did not seem to notice the inflexion. It continued impassively: "Tell me about him."

"About Tarrant?"

"That is correct. How did he come to be aboard your ship?"

Cally sat down on the padded chair and looked up at the grille. If she answered these questions perhaps it might answer some of hers. She cast her mind back half a year, trying to make sense of her confused thoughts. Patiently the voice waited.

"I suppose that Tarrant was just lucky…"

+++++

"How is he?"

By the time that Avon reached the place where Tarrant had fallen Dayna had dragged the man to firmer ground and was working desperately to clear his mouth and nose of slime and weedy water. Vila had turned aside to be sick. When Avon saw the body he could understand why. The wounds that Tarrant had received from the swamp hunter were bad; one shoulder mangled to a bloody pulp, glistening bone exposed amid the tatters of torn muscle, thigh and chest scored with the marks of those savage teeth, blood mingled with green mud. Bad, but that was not the worst of what had happened. One side of Tarrant's body, from throat to heel, was charred black from the force of the electric discharge from the dying swamp-creature. Burned flesh had sloughed away in ragged patches, exposing slime-encrusted muscle. Insects were already buzzing round the wounds. Anything that Dayna could do would only prolong his agony. Avon bent to pull her away from the corpse – and Tarrant opened his eyes.

They were blue pools of a pain so anguished that they seemed almost tranquil. Dayna gasped in sympathetic reaction. She felt so helpless. Behind her she heard the rasping sound of a gun being drawn. She turned.

"No."

Avon shook off her restraining hand. His eyes were hooded as he looked down at the horribly wounded man. His voice was surprisingly gentle.

"There is nothing that we can do for you, Tarrant."

The blue eyes shifted to the gun in Avon's hand. Incredibly Tarrant managed to summon up the strength to give an almost imperceptible nod. Dayna turned away as Avon rested his thumb on the firing button.

"Avon!" Vila's cry was more one of surprise than protest. Avon's head snapped round, the gun still ready. Vila was standing about eight metres away on what seemed to be a patch of higher, drier ground. In his hands he held a grey, mud-bespattered box.

"I don't think Orac can help."

Vila shook his head and jumped down from his vantage point.

"You're not going to believe this," He was working on the catches of the box as he moved. By the time he reached his companions the lid was open. He set it down beside Dayna. She looked at it as if it might vanish at any moment. Avon was the first to touch the thing.

"It's one of the Liberator's emergency medical kits."

A groan from Tarrant galvanised Dayna into action. She fairly pushed Avon aside to reach the box.

"I'll need an anaesthetic pad – no – two. The re-gen and a disinfectant spray. Well, come on, Vila. Avon. You hold him. There isn't time for the anaesthetic to work if we want to save this arm…"

\+ PROGRAM 827/43 : RUNNING +  
\+ INPUT +  
\+ ANALYSIS COMPLETE +  
\+ PROJECT CLOSED +  
\+ INITIATE TERMINAL PHASE +

The causeway was a strip of clean green concrete that stretched in an absolutely straight line from the centre of the swamp to the foothills of the mountains. Vila stood at the end of it, on the spot where he had found the medical kit on the previous day, and inspected the long, green path. It looked real enough but the events of the past few days had such an unreal quality that he would not have been surprised to have seen the path vanish before his eyes. At least it had been solid enough to provide them with the first dry campsite they had found since leaving the spaceship. Dayna crawled from the inflated survival tent behind him.

"How's Tarrant?"

"Fine. That re-gen stuff works miracles."

Vila shrugged. "I'm beginning to think that nothing can kill Tarrant. I never have that kind of luck. I mean, what are the odds on one of the Liberator's medical kits landing here just where we need it?"

Dayna smiled. "I expect Orac could tell you. The thing had to land somewhere. This planet is probably littered with wreckage. Liberator technology was pretty tough. Not much would have burned up on re-entry."

"Yes," Vila made a wry face. "But such opportune litter."

"You worry too much, Via." Dayna turned back to the tent and released the deflation valves. "Come on, let's get this lot packed. Avon says we can make it to the mountains by nightfall."

+++++

"Who are you?" It seemed to Cally that she had been talking for days, dragging from her recalcitrant memory every fact she knew, every speculation they had made, about Del Tarrant. The speaker had questioned her minutely, going over and over the same points with the relentless, meticulous attention of a Federation interrogator. The questioning had been unpleasant, but at least it had driven from Cally's mind the thoughts of her lost telepathic powers, and for that she had been grateful.

Now it seemed to be over, and she sought desperately to prolong the contact, even with this impassive disembodied voice, rather than be left alone with her fears. She did not expect it to answer. It was a long time before it did. Then:

\+ I AM ARGUS +

+++++

"Even if we managed to climb up there there's no guarantee that we'll find Cally."

They were standing at the foot of a tumble of jagged rocks. It was the first really testing climb that they had faced, and one that promised to be easier than the following stage, an almost sheer rock face rising from the ledge about forty metres above them. Vila's comment wasn't calculated to inspire enthusiasm for the climb.

"We've got Orac's word," Tarrant commented. Vila nodded.

"And Orac has a way of twisting the truth to suit himself. All he said was that there's a computer somewhere up there which is responsible for kidnapping Cally. She could be anywhere on this planet."

"Yes, but we have to start somewhere."

Vila decided to change tack. "Okay, you go on up and take a look around. I'll be quite happy here. I mean, I'm not very good with computers. That's Avon's job."

Avon looked up sharply at the sound of his name. Although he seemed to be wholly occupied with Orac he had obviously been keeping track of the conversation. Or perhaps he just knew Vila very, very well. He rose to his feet.

"You're coming, Vila." It was a statement of fact, but the thief wasn't going to give in that easily.

"Oh now look here Avon. You know I don't like heights…"

"You'll learn to like them. If we get up there and find out that this computer is under lock and key I don't intend to come down and fetch you. I'll send Tarrant. I don't think that his luck has run out yet."

Avon's face was quite inscrutable, but for some reason Vila felt that something significant had just been said. It had a more chilling implication than Avon's actual threat. He glanced across at Tarrant, who had moved to the base of he cliff to inspect the climb. Tarrant's luck. Vila shrugged. Someday Tarrant's luck would run out. He rather hoped that he would be there when it did.

Tarrant turned from his inspection and found Avon at his side. He gestured to the rockface. "Have you done much climbing?"

The younger man shrugged. "Some. I took the standard training course at the Academy. Enough to be able to tackle this."

Avon nodded. He viewed the prospective climb with about as much enthusiasm as Vila. He was not fond of strenuous sports and mountain climbing had always seemed to him to be the most futile of pursuits. The old 'because it's there' excuse had never seemed to be a valid reason to risk life and limb dicing with nature in the raw. But since he had joined Blake he had found himself doing just that all too frequently. Necessity was the mother of experience as well as of invention. Necessity. Well, it was no use putting it off for any longer. "Dayna's probably the most experienced of us," he said to Tarrant. "If she leads can you bring up the rear?"

Tarrant nodded.

"Right. Let's get moving."

\+ PROGRAM 827/43 : RUNNING +  
\+ TERMINAL PHASE INITIATED +  
\+ MONITORING +

The heavens opened.

Quite literally.

Sheet lightning flashed across the sky and the answering rumble of thunder was completely drowned by the splash of torrential rainfall against the rock. Within minutes the climbers were soaked to the skin as the water ran down folds of saturated clothing to fill boots, cuffs and collars with a maddening clammy coldness. It was a chill rain that seeped into fingers already scraped raw on the rough rock surface, numbing them so that even the tightest grip seemed as precarious as a fingertip hold.

The downpour caught Tarrant in the worst possible position; spread-eagled against the sheer rock face of an overhang. For a crazy moment the earth and sky seemed to change places. He felt absurdly safe pressed against the unyielding rock surface, his body held there not in defiance of gravity but in accord with it. He could wait out the storm here with no effort…

He relaxed. And the sensation of falling hit him before he could actually release his grip. Again the world shifted and this time he had to close rain-blinded eyes against the dizzy reel of black sky and slick black rock. Now the fall was a possibility, not an illusion. He was being dragged backwards – not down, but horizontally backwards, as if a giant was trying to pluck him from the cliff.

It was the rope. Saturated by the rain it hung from his waist in a long loop, swinging as the storm battered against it. Pulling him down.

Down.

The rope was hanging loose against the cliff!

Tarrant looked up, forcing his eyes open against the torrent that waterfalled over the edge of the outcrop. The others were out of sight above. Almost the last thing he had seen before the storm hit was Vila being hauled over the edge of the outcrop onto the ledge which Dayna had found above. Now the rope, which had been as taut as his nerves only moments before, ready to take his weight for that last, most dangerous part of the climb, dangled, a tassel of frayed, useless fibre only millimetres from his fingers.

To grab for it would be suicide.

Tarrant's world focussed on that single point. The rough texture of the rock, his rain-numbed fingers, and the dark line that meant safety. Slowly, infinitely slowly, he released his fingertip hold and wriggled that hand across the slick granite. His weight shifted imperceptibly and he felt one foot slipping from the flake of rock that held it.

Concentrate.

It was muttered self-admonition. There was so much to remember. Four points of contact, each no more than a finger-width deep, held him from the drop. He could not afford to make a mistake.

The storm redoubled its fury, but it was outside his world. Above, someone was calling his name; the word was whipped away by the downpour, drowned in thunder. Unheeded by the man whose consciousness was bounded by rock, and rope, and rain.

Again he moved his fingers, and felt wet cord brush against the flesh.

So near…

Tarrant's luck was holding.

His hand turned, gripped. The grimace of concentration became a grin of triumph – and a scream of despair as the frayed rope pulled loose of its anchoring and snaked down the cliff, writhing like a serpent against the lightning-torn sky.

Tarrant followed it down.

+++++

Cally looked up at the speaker grille.

Argus. A code name. Not human.

"You are a machine?"

\+ CORRECT +

"Why are you keeping me here? What do you want with me?"

Her fingers gripped the arm of her chair, betraying her tension as she waited for an answer.

A computer. Left alone for centuries on a deserted planet, a planet created by the Federation scientists in order to try experiments that could not be attempted even in the utmost secrecy on Earth. Such a computer might be capable of almost anything. Somehow it had already deprived her of her telepathic ability. And it had asked about Tarrant. Too late Cally regretted her hasty words. She scarcely heard the answer to her questions.

\+ YOUR CAPTURE WAS NECESSARY FOR THE COMPLETION OF PROGRAM 827/43 +

She asked without thinking: "What is Program 827/43?" and grinned ruefully. Some of Avon's curtness with computers (and humans) was rubbing off on her.

\+ THE PROGRAM WAS DESIGNED TO ANALYSE THE PROPERTY CALLED 'LUCK' AND EVALUATE THE POSSIBILITY OF SYNTHETIC MANIPULATION +

"Luck? But that's impossible. I mean, it's sheer… chance. You can't…" She broke off. Perhaps she had gone too far. One should not antagonise a computer. But the toneless voice continued.

\+ THE PROGRAM IS COMPLETE +   
\+ DATA OBTAINED FROM OBSERVATION ON THE ONE NAMED 'TARRANT' INDICATES THAT SYNTHETIC MANIPULATION OF THE CHANCE FACTOR HAS A 100% PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS +

The idea intrigued her, but Tarrant's name was more important. "You kidnapped me to lure Tarrant here? Why? And why have you deprived me of my telepathic powers?"

\+ IT WAS NECESSARY TO ELIMINATE ALL EXTRANEOUS FACTORS +

"But now the program is complete?"

\+ CORRECT +

Cally hardly dared to ask the next question, but she had no choice, it had to be voiced.   
"And what about Tarrant? Is he safe?"

\+ THE TEST PROGRAM IS COMPLETE +  
\+ ALL AVAILABLE DATA HAS BEEN EVALUATED +

She did not need to ask more. She knew, from bitter experience, that when a computer runs a test, it tests to destruction.

+++++

The storm ended as suddenly as it had begun, a summer storm dispersed by the sun. The group clinging to the ledge on the cliff face could see the dark cloud retreating, lightning playing around the more distant hilltops. The land seemed cleansed, brighter for the darkness that had passed over it.

It was Dayna who moved first, sliding cautiously along the ledge to the lip of the overhang to peer over the edge. Tarrant was nowhere in sight. She called him, certain that he had not begun this latest stage of the climb before the storm overtook them. He would be sheltering below, out of the waterfall that had now become a mere trickle over the lip of the warm rock. She envied him. The overhang formed a perfect shelter.

"Tarrant!"

No reply.

Dayna leaned out further, searching for some sign of life below, some movement. If he had somehow been injured then they would have to go back for him. She did not relish the thought of repeating that perilous traverse.

Vila crawled alongside her as she called again. The thought of going back appealed to him even less. Trust Tarrant to find a nice cosy shelter from that storm. Tarrant's luck. Vila could certainly do with some of it now.

"Tarrant's luck," said Avon, from behind then, "finally ran out."

He was holding the frayed end of the safety line in his hands. It took the others a few moments to realise what the laconic comment meant. For the first time Vila looked straight down the sheer face of the cliff to the ground hundreds of metres below. He shivered.

"Nasty."

Dayna refused to believe it. Her shout raised echoes.

"Tarrant! Ta… rra…aaaa…ant!"

Avon reached out and shook her. "Do you want to start an avalanche as well? Isn't one death enough?"

Her despair flared into anger. "Is it enough for you?! It's disproved your theory, hasn't it? Tarrant's luck! Does Orac have any more bright ideas?"

"If we finish this climb we might find out. Nothing has changed, Dayna. We still have to find Cally."

"Nothing's changed!" It was angry incredulity. "Tarrant was right, you are a callous bastard. You don't care about anyone except yourself, do you?"

Avon coiled the length of rope in his hands, making the loops of equal length with almost machine-like precision. His eyes were unfocussed, his face a mask. "I bury my dead, Dayna. The living are more important. While Cally is alive I intend to find her."

He swung the coiled rope over his shoulder and turned away. Dayna watched numbly as he started the last stage of the climb. When she felt Vila lay a comforting hand on her shoulder she shook it off. He had never liked Tarrant either. Sympathy from Vila was sheer hypocrisy. It never occurred to her that it might be her sympathy he sought. I bury my dead, Avon had said; but there was no one to bury Tarrant, and Vila, looking down, remembered what the carrion scavengers of Terminal left of their prey.

He shuddered.

+++++

Light flashed off of the rocks. The momentary spark caught Cally's eye, drawing her to the window. She leaned out, hands resting on the curved sill. The wind caught at her hair and whipped it into her eyes so that, for a moment, the enigmatic sparkling was obscured.

Then it flashed again.

Sunlight dancing over a puddle of water trapped in some hollow of the rocks? It must be. She dared not hope otherwise. And yet…

Surely that second spark had come from higher up than the first? The sun moved, of course, but not so swiftly. Or there could be a million rock pools left after the storm. Or it might be a vein of mica reflecting the light. A dozen explanations vied in her mind. She dared not hope that the most unlikely one was true – that her companions were below. They could not know where she was. She did not know that herself. But…

I always warned you, Avon, not to wear silver on these hostile worlds. Why must you invite danger?

She was certain now. Sunlight on water would not move so.

_I am here… here… hear…_

Her mind beat against the barriers that blocked her telepathic powers. She screamed silently as those barriers remained immovable. They were so close. There must be some way that she could guide them here.

She turned back from the window and saw again that illusive flash of light, but this time from _inside_ the room.

The mirror.

Clouds scudded deep within its surface. Her own drawn, haunted face was reflected there for an instant. Then - the heel of her shoe crashed into the glass and the image fragmented crazily.

She cut her hand as she picked up one of the pieces, but she scarcely noticed the blood, save to wipe it with the edge of her sleeve when the crimson flow threatened to obscure the reflective surface of the mirror.

Again she leaned from the window, the slippery glass in her hand. The tower was in shadow, but if she leaned out far enough…

+++++

Dayna became subliminally aware of the light before she saw it. A flashing pulse, too regular to be natural. And, besides, it was coming from ahead of them, from the deep shadow where the cliff overhung that curiously symmetrical outcrop. There was no reason why light should come from that stygian blackness. Dayna scrambled up to the summit of the flat-topped pinnacle they had been climbing. Avon was already waiting, his back to her, studying the next stretch of the climb. Each section looked more impossible than the last. What faced him now was a near-vertical surface of flaking rock. Well, looking at it would not get it climbed. He shouldered the coil of rope and reached out for a handhold. The projecting knob broke off in his fingers. At that moment Dayna spoke his name. Cursing, he turned.

"What is it?"

She pointed, indicating a dark section of cliff away to his right. His gaze followed her finger, but there was nothing. His sharp retort was broken by Vila's panting arrival on the top of the pinnacle.

"Oh good. Are we resting? I'm exhausted."

"You always are." Tired and exasperated himself, Avon had no patience left for his companions. He snapped at Dayna. "Well, why have we stopped?"

Avon had never been able to intimidate Dayna and he failed now. She was still watching the shadowed cliff.

"I thought I saw… yes, look. That light."

This time they all saw it. A regular pulse of light sparkling against the velvet of the dark. Vila sat down and rubbed his cold hands together in an effort to restore the circulation to numbed fingers.

"It's nothing. Just a trick of the light."

"No." Avon's denial was categorical. In complete contrast to his earlier scepticism. He was watching the pulsing light as if hypnotised. They were silent for a long time before Dayna rose to her feet and touched his arm.

"What is it, Avon?"

"A distress signal."

"Cally?"

He took a deep breath. "It could be. We have to hope so." He turned away to begin the climb. It had to be Cally. In spite of the lack of telepathic contact, it had to be.

+++++

The tower was cast from the same green substance as the causeway across the marsh. The three climbers came upon the steps quite suddenly. At first they had seemed to be natural rock formations, easier to climb than the rockface they had already scaled. Only when they rounded the grey outcrop that marked the summit of the cliff did they realise that this was no natural path. The olive coloured surface sloped evenly up to the door of the tower.

It was not an inviting sight. Webs of grey vegetation hung like rags across the angular windows. Vile green lichen-like plants scummed the ledges and poured down the discoloured walls, emphasising the decay where waste pipes and split wiring conduits debouched their contents. The windows still held panes of colourless translucent substance, which was obviously, too durable to be glass: although the place had obviously been deserted for years, perhaps centuries, there was no crack in the blank, weather-scoured panes. Sightless, the tower gazed across the valley.

"All it needs, Vila observed, shivering in the thin wind blowing across the summit, "is a few wolves howling in the distance."

As if in response an eerie cry drifted up from the valley below. High pitched, it resembled the scream of a Siamese cat more than the lonely howl of a wolf, but the timing was opportune. Vila needed no second reminder that Death walked these ridges. Whatever lay within the tower it offered shelter for the night, and, perhaps…"

"Cally!" Avon's cry echoed among the rocks. His eyes were fixed on the upper windows of the tower, his mind alert, open to her reply.

A reply which did not come. That in itself was ominous. Had they come all this way for nothing? A lonely cliff and an empty tower? Orac had guided them here, but Orac was only a machine, responding to the power of other machines. A power source did not necessarily require life to maintain it. Avon looked up at the unbroken windows, the scarred but still intact walls. Old and neglected though this place was, the machines which it housed might still be functioning. And they had all seen a signal light. A telepath, trapped by a machine. The thought held an irony that might have amused him, had it been anyone but Cally.

"Cally!"

A spark glowed momentarily against the upper darkness. A flash of light quick as thought blinked on and off three times. But once was enough. Avon caught Vila's shoulder.

"We brought you along to open doors, remember?"

The thief was given no opportunity to reply as he was propelled up the last ramp to the gateway of the tower.

"There's a door. Open it."

Vila set to work.

+++++

Cally had imagined the light, she was convinced of t. And the call which had sounded like her name had been no more than the echoed scream of a night hunter, the almost human cry of a creature so like the halat of dead Auron that she had thought for a moment that she was back on her home world. She was hallucinating. She was on the edge of madness. A telepath deprived of the contact she needed to keep her sane would begin to imagine that contact. She had been mad to answer that cry.

Her haunted eyes rested on the smashed mirror. For a moment it seemed to symbolise her life. Brightness shattered. The past fragmented and the future destroyed.

And then she was convinced of her madness.

The wall vanished.

One moment it was there, a smooth warmth at her back, comfortingly real in this nightmare prison, and the next moment, deprived of its support, she was falling.

Strong hands caught her and set her on her feet. She heard Vila's chuckle as he stepped into the room.

"Now that was interesting. You don't often come across hypno-locks that complex. A real challenge." He paused, concerned.

"Are you alright, Cally?"

She nodded, pulling free of his hold. She dared not trust her voice. There were tears at the back of her throat and tears pricking at her eyes. She fought for control, shaking off the hand that helped her into the chair. When she dared to raise her head she met Avon's worried frown. There was a long silence.

Avon knew that look. He waited for her cool voice to speak reassurance in his mind. There was nothing. No telepathic touch. No shadow of empathic contact. Nothing.

Cally's eyes were wide now; frightened.

"Cally, what is it? What's wrong?"

She dropped her head so that her auburn curls obscured her face. Very quietly, resolutely, she told them.

"I wasn't sure that it was true, but… I've lost my powers of telepathy, Avon. I can't… can't even… think… straight."

He rested a hand gently on her shoulder. This time she did not shun the contact. "You were thinking straight when you guided us here with that light. Whoever, whatever did this to you, we'll find them and have the process reversed."

"If it is reversible." She sounded hopeless, but she raised her head and managed a slight smile. Cally would not give up fighting. Not yet.

"Of course it's reversible. Someone with the skill to deprive a psi of her talents must have a way of replacing them." Dayna knelt beside Cally, taking the Auron girl's hand in hers. "Cally, don't worry. Maybe Orac can find a solution."

"Orac?" Cally glanced sharply across the room to where the speaker grille was situated. It was ominously silent. The computer program had been completed. Perhaps it would never speak again. She turned to Avon.

"Is Orac operating?"

"It picked up a signal from here. There's a computer complex below us." He gestured to the corridor from which they had entered the room. "It's a very sophisticated set-up. We saw some of the input terminals on the way up."

Cally nodded. "It calls itself 'Argus'. I was brought here as bait. To trap Tarrant…" She stopped, startled. For the first time she realised that Tarrant was not with them. "Tarrant – where…"

She was given no chance to finish the question. There was a sudden tension in the room as Dayna met Avon's eyes. Her voice was dangerous as she answered Cally. "The trap worked. Tarrant… didn't make it."

Cally gasped, remembering. "And I told Argus that he was so lucky. He led a charmed life…"

The air in the room shivered, dust motes rising in the sudden hot draught. Vila backed away as Avon drew the gun from its holster, ready to fire.

Tarrant smiled.

"Do you really want to try killing me again, Avon?"

It was a frozen tableau. Cally, wide-eyed, half risen from her chair; Avon's fingers still firm on her shoulder, the gun unwavering in his other hand; Vila backed against the opening through which they had entered, as if the empty air could provide support; Dayna, unbelieving, echoed Cally's last words to herself.

"A charmed life…"

Avon holstered the gun. "It worked." A statement of fact.

Tarrant nodded. "Thanks to Orac. I was luckier than he predicted though. The caverns at the base of this cliff have very nice teleport system set up. It was easier than climbing."

"We noticed." Vila's shock was gone, replaced by a grudging belligerence. This was taking Tarrant's luck a little too far. "You went down the easy way, too."

Avon's eyes met Tarrant's. Their expression was unreadable. Tarrant gave an ironic little nod. "There wasn't any danger, was there, Avon? You checked with Orac. The computer here was programmed to test my luck; I found that out in the caverns. So you had Orac make a prediction on the basis of the program. When you cut that rope you knew my luck wasn't due to run out."

"Not then, no. But introducing a deliberate act of sabotage would have thrown the program out. As it did. As a matter of interest, how did you survive the fall?"

Tarrant winced. The memory was obviously painful. "The stream which feeds the swamp runs under these cliffs, and it's at its deepest directly below this tower. Deep enough to break a high fall. And the current sweeps round into an underground harbour. Whoever built this place must have used it and set up a teleport system to get goods up and down the cliff."

"Which leaves two questions," said Dayna; "how do we get out of here? And what about Cally?"

The Auron girl looked up. There was hope in her eyes, but not in her heart. "Don't…" she paused. What she had meant to say would sound futile. She changed her mind, turning to Avon. "Argus is very powerful. It has already tried to kill once."

The computer expert met her gaze. Again he half expected to hear her voice in his mind, but the unspoken words were only his imagination.

Take care.

His grip tightened on her shoulder, and relaxed, reassuringly. The message, unthought, had been understood.

"Self programming computers have a major flaw," he said.

Vila looked up expectantly. It wasn't often that Avon admitted that his beloved machines could make mistakes.

"They don't like to admit that they can be wrong."

Vila's triumphant retort was cut dead by Tarrant's quiet: "So?"

"So I suggest, Tarrant, that you tell it who you are."

"I didn't realise that you had such faith in my charisma, Avon."

Avon shrugged. "It's a computer, Tarrant. They're not renowned for their talents in character assessment, but in this case I think Argus may be overwhelmed by your charms."

Tarrant wasn't to certain. "Computers are your field, Avon, not mine."

"That's why I'm sending you in there."

Dayna's nerves were strung tight. The tension in the room was a tangible force. Her patience snapped under the strain. "So do it, Tarrant. Before that thing decides to kill us all."

Vila finished with the lock and pushed the door gently ajar so that a sliver of light showed from the room within. He stepped back warily as Tarrant reached out to open it.  
"Good luck, Tarrant."

Tarrant smiled grimly, and was gone.

+++++

The room was small, close, and black. Lined from floor to ceiling around all five walls with the matt black and brushed steel fascias of an incredibly complex array of ancient computer hardware. There was no focal point. The knobs, dials and indicators formed geometric patterns that confused the eye.

\+ INTRUDER +

The voice was an aggressive cackle. Tarrant took an involuntary step back, then realised that this was only a machine, and an ancient one. That was confirmed as the voice crackled again, old circuits hissing with the characteristic sounds of faulty contacts and a depleted power source.

\+ WHO ARE YOU? +

He squared his shoulders defiantly.

"My name is Del Tarrant."

There was a long pause. The whirling lights blinked, alien instruments striving to cope with the impossible.

\+ VOICE PRINT : CONFIRMED +  
\+ PHYSICAL PRESENCE : CONFIRMED +  
\+ RE-EVALUATE : SUBJECT : DEL TARRANT +  
\+ PROJECT 827/43 : PROGRAM COMPLETED +  
\+ DATA INCOMPATABLE +  
\+ CONFIRM VOICE PRINT +

The evaluation should have taken microseconds. Time stretched into infinity as the machine strove to solve the paradox. The experiment had been completed with Tarrant's predicted death.

Fact.

Yet Tarrant stood, living, before it.

Fact.

\+ YOU… ARE…TAR…RANT ? +

The faults were building; burning out circuits that governed the vocal responses of Argus. It sounded doubtful. Old.

"I am Del Tarrant. Of Earth," he added, firmly.

\+ IT DOES NOT COMPUTE +

"That's your problem." Tarrant was enjoying himself.

\+ NOT… COMPUTE… +  
\+ RE-EVALUATE…. +

Sparks flew from the panels. Plastic warped, melted. Fragile crystal matrices shattered. The computer's voice was silenced, but the sounds of destruction crackled through the tower. In her room Cally clapped her hands over her ears.

"It's dying." _Avon, it's dying..._

He nodded, absorbed in his study of a unit at one side of the room where Tarrant had materialised. A teleport mechanism.

Tele…

His head jerked up and his eyes met Cally's. He did not need to tell her that he had heard her thought. Very gently, she was smiling.

Their rapport was shattered as Dayna crashed into the room. Vila, working on the lock mechanism, was swept aside unnoticed in her excitement. She held a long rifle in one hand and carried a sealed box.

"I found the armoury." She had to shout, for the sounds of destruction filled the tower. Smoke drifted along the corridor, Tarrant running in its wake. He cannoned into Vila at the entrance. The thief staggered for the second time in as many minutes, and found Tarrant's hands supporting him.

"When you give someone a mental breakdown you don't stop at paranoia, do you?"

Tarrant ignored him. "The whole end of the corridor is in flames. Can you shut down the force field?"

"I was working on it when you arrived." Vila went back to the control panel. Seconds later the fourth wall of the room shimmered into existence. Vila viewed his handiwork with pride, before a thought occurred.

"How do we get out of here?"

"The same way Tarrant got in." Avon had detached the teleport unit from its supports. Now he switched on Orac. "Orac, I assume that Argus used this system to teleport Cally here from the Federation ship crash site. Can you program those co-ordinates into it?"

\+ Of course +

Condescending as ever, the computer seemed to pause for thought. They heard the fire crackling in the corridor. The illusion of solidity projected by the force wall was fading as the circuits that maintained it burned out. Ghastly orange light flickered over the faces of the companions who stood tensely waiting around the insignificant box of the alien teleport unit. The air caught and held those images, etched in flame.

Then the room was empty.

+++++

The ship was spaceworthy.

It had taken three times as long as Tarrant had predicted, but Avon's checks had been exhaustive, and he had been forced to make critical adjustments to the ship's power sources in order to install the alien teleport device. He was still making last minute adjustments when Vila came slithering into the control cabin.

"Avon. I've been thinking."

"That must have been a strain." Avon leaned closer to the machine he was working on, his back to the thief, the picture of concentration, and indifference.

Vila shifted from one foot to the other. "No… It's about that luck thing of Tarrant's. If all we had to do was to convince Argus that he was dead, couldn't Orac have fed that information directly into its memory?"

"Possibly."

Vila wished that Avon would turn around. They didn't often get a chance to share a joke, and while Tarrant probably wouldn't appreciate the humour inherent in his being pushed off of a cliff for no good reason, Vila could see the funny side. But if Avon wasn't going to play ball…

Vila turned to leave.

As he reached the entrance Avon did turn, his face an expressionless mask.

"Orac, " he said, by way of explanation, "suggested that we make it look convincing."

Vila left, grinning.

END


End file.
